


Bedhead

by DestielTheShipOfDreams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Castiel in the Bunker, Cute, M/M, One Shot, Season/Series 11, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but no smut soz, castiel is ariel fight me on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 04:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10823865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielTheShipOfDreams/pseuds/DestielTheShipOfDreams
Summary: Dean finds a welcome sight in the bunker kitchen, but a (literal) slip-up leads to a moment that's too close for comfort. Destiel one shot.





	Bedhead

**Author's Note:**

> So this little fic, taken from my ff.net account, has two inspos:   
> 1) This tumblr post I'm sure we've all seen: http://angelsigils.tumblr.com/post/51398931863/i-feel-like-cas-would-have-the-most-ridiculous  
> 2) That scene in The Little Mermaid where Eric comes across Ariel on the beach and she falls into his arms and they gaze wonderingly at each other. Because it's a hilariously cute romantic Disney moment and because Cas is Ariel. Think about it, they have basically the same story.

Dean grins around a yawn as he moves through the bunker, hearing the music grow louder as he nears the kitchen. He’s always quite liked Michael Jackson, although he pretended otherwise last night when Sam made them sit through a Top Ten countdown of the late pop king’s songs. He only acquiesced when Sam insisted that it was for the good of Castiel’s musical education; the angel should have a wider range to listen to than classic rock. Cas piped up at that point from his space curled up in an armchair, saying that actually, he liked Dean’s music very much. Dean was so busy blushing and smiling smugly at this that he sat through the entire show without a single scathing comment. He even hummed along from behind his beer bottle.

 

This morning, Dean thinks it’s a little early for ‘Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough’ but he’ll forgive Sam if the gigantor makes him a decent coffee. Stretching, he pads around the corner into the kitchen doorway and comes to a surprised halt.

 

Castiel is at the counter, bopping along on the balls of his fluffy bedsock-clad feet - _where did he even get those?,_ Dean wonders - as he pours hot water into a coffee mug. He’s only wearing boxers and an ancient, loose t-shirt with the Rolling Stones mouth logo on it; Dean knows he should be annoyed at the angel stealing his old shirts out of the laundry, but he’s really not.

 

Dean can see Cas’s side profile from where he stands and he doesn’t WANT to think that his soft, off-key humming and tufted bed hair are adorable, but some things can’t be helped. That bedhead is the bane of Dean’s life. Every morning - sometimes for the whole day if Castiel doesn’t bother to look in a mirror and pick up a comb - Dean has to avoid staring in reluctant fascination at the mess of soft, dark hair. He has to studiously ignore the way it’s swept into rumpled waves and cowlicks, random locks falling over Cas’s forehead and curling behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. He’s let it grow a bit longer than it used to be, Dean’s sure of it. Sometimes Cas runs a careless hand through it and Dean has to bite his lip and shut his eyes, wanting to be that hand so badly it’s pathetic.

 

Now is no different, and Dean has given up trying to justify the weird obsession to himself. Cas is engrossed in adding the perfect spoonful of sugar to his coffee and thinks he’s still alone, so Dean can lean against the doorframe and just drink his friend in for a moment with no repercussions. It’s so good to have him here like this, happy and relaxed and messy, part of the family. Plus, for reasons Dean has gotten used to ignoring over the years, he loves being able to just look at the angel.

 

Cas picks up the finished coffee and takes a sip as he spins to the other counter, setting his mug down and resuming his bopping and mumbling to the song. He opens a cupboard above him and stretches up on his toes to reach a packet of biscuits on the top shelf; Dean doesn’t even bother trying to stop himself from staring at the long, lovely lines of his bare legs, calf muscles tensed and boxers showing off a generous amount of thigh. He’s been sneakily checking out Castiel for years, it doesn’t have to mean anything. He’s way past feeling weird or guilty about it.

 

Cas nibbles on a biscuit as he nods along to the music, humming growing louder. Dean can’t see his face but he’s sure the angel looks thoughtful. As the song moves into its final chorus, Cas sets the biscuit down next to the coffee and, to Dean’s shocked amusement, he performs a fairly decent moonwalk across the kitchen, towards Dean, hands out for balance. Dean steps forward, grinning at the sight, and his snort of laughter startles the angel just as he comes within two feet of Dean.

 

Most humans would agree that socks and slippery floors are a bad combination; unfortunately, this is not something that Castiel appears to be aware of. He stumbles and does a sort of violent twirl of shock at Dean’s laugh, looking comically alarmed. As he turns on the ball of one foot to face the human behind him, it slips and he’s launched with some force into Dean’s arms. Dean, for his part, is totally unprepared to end up with his nose throbbing in pain from smashing into Cas’s skull, or for his loosely opened arms to be filled with the considerable weight of a familiar-scented angel. He huffs out his breath and staggers a little.

 

Cas has one arm thrown around Dean’s neck, gripping a fistful of his robe, with the other hand splayed over his chest. His upturned face is barely two inches from Dean’s, cheeks as pink as his lips and lips as round as his eyes. Dean stares back at him, arms tightening reflexively behind the angel’s back, one hand reaching all the way around to curl rather intimately against Cas’s waist. The firm flesh is warm, almost hot, even through the thin cotton of the t-shirt. The moment draws out awkwardly as the song ends and the radio presenter breaks into cheerful chatter. Dean’s brain is utterly unhelpful and all it seems able to come up with is the observation that Cas’s bedhead looks even better up close.

 

“Dean,” Cas breathes, looking dazed. Those summer sky eyes skim across Dean’s face, lingering on his mouth before drawing back up. “Sorry... I slipped.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Dean’s voice is weak and raspy in his own ears. He clears his throat, still frozen on the spot. “Caught you.”

 

He grins, although he didn’t plan to, and Castiel smiles back. They stare at each other for a moment longer, tangled up in each other’s arms, sharing breath and body heat. Cas straightens up a little so that he’s eye level with Dean, noses almost brushing, and he uncurls his fist from the old robe. He shifts his hand up a little and long, warm fingers brush across the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and it suddenly occurs to Dean that this is ridiculous and he should have let go way before now and what the hell is happening? Clearing his throat again, he drops his arms and leans back.

 

“You can, uh, let go now...” he mutters towards Cas’s shoulder, feeling the angel’s arm still draped around his neck, the other hand warm on his chest. There’s a pregnant pause before Castiel audibly sighs and lets go, stepping away quickly.

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, gaze intense. Dean shrugs, feeling cold and confused. He tries to bring the moment into more comfortable territory and drags a cheeky grin onto his face.

 

“You been practicing your dance moves? That was a decent moonwalk, man.”

 

Cas wrinkles his nose and drops his eyes, looking embarrassed. “Dancing is an odd human pastime. I was just trying it out. You weren’t meant to see.”

 

Dean snorts and claps Cas on the shoulder as he passes him, feeling more confident and less like he’s drunk or suffering from a head injury. “Don’t worry about it, I didn’t get photos. You want toast?”

 

By the time Sam wanders in fifteen minutes later, the moment has been brutally shoved into a dark, crowded corner of Dean’s mind, only to be brought out when he’s dreaming and can’t control it. He’s sat with Cas at the table, chatting casually about comic book movies, both of them well practiced at smoothing over the snags in their unspoken agreement to ignore their mutual feelings. This time was close, though, closer than it’s been for a long time. Every time Dean almost kisses the angel it feels like he barely pulls himself back from the edge. The walls he put up years ago are wearing so thin now with Cas living in the bunker, in Dean’s space and on his mind nearly constantly.

 

Dean wonders if next time will be the last time. So quietly he barely acknowledges the thought, he wonders if he even wants to keep pretending. Giving in is starting to seem inevitable.

 

Maybe it’s time.


End file.
